The "theft" (oh, how unfair!) of that machinery;
By which our honest labours
Might have secured the markets of our neighbours!

Bearing the cross for other people's, crime,
Eager to purge the wrong by true repentance,
When to a purer air we fain would climb,
How can we do it under such a sentence?
Is this the law of Love,
Supposed to animate the Blessed Dove?

Oh, not for mere material loss alone,
Not for our trade, reduced to pulp, we whimper,
But for our dashed illusions we make moan,
Our spiritual aims grown limp and limper,
Our glorious aspirations
Touching a really noble League of Nations.

So, like a phantom dawn, it fades to dark,
This vision of a world made new and better;
And he whose heavenly notes recalled the lark
Soaring, in air without an earthly fetter--
WILSON is gone, the mystic,
Whose views, like ours, were so idealistic!

O.S.

* * * * *

GOOD-BYE TO THE AUXILIARY PATROL.